


things don’t have to make sense

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Gen, Illustrations, Monsters Being Friends, Sort Of, helen is here to have a Good Time, jon is sad lonely and drunk, vaguely early s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:08:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22256212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Helen smiles at him. Helen Richardson had had a small, shaky, uncertain, tear stained smile when he’d known her. Helen smiles like Michael, instead.Michael Shelley probably hadn’t smiled like Michael had, either. He didn’t seem like the type to smile like that, from the little he heard about him on the tapes, the story. Not so wide, with so many teeth, eyes so open.But no one smiles at Jon nowadays, so he smiles back for just a moment, even if he still feels a bit like he’s looking at something wearing Helen’s corpse.
Relationships: Helen & Jonathan Sims
Comments: 62
Kudos: 517
Collections: The Magnus Archives Rare Pairs 2020





	things don’t have to make sense

**Author's Note:**

  * For [screechfox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/screechfox/gifts).



> The illustration was done by the incredible [sajwho!](https://sajwho.tumblr.com/) Check their stuff out!

There are four desks in the Archives, outside of Jon’s private office. Back when… before the Not Them, Prentiss, all of it, Martin, Sasha, and Tim had each had their own, and the fourth spare desk seemed to be considered to be unclaimed territory that everyone was free to toss their extraneous mess onto to keep their own desks relatively clean. Books borrowed from the library for reference, statements that they’d get to in just a moment, a hoard of spare office supplies, anything really. He had disapproved of it, but he’d supposed that keeping their work stations orderly was more important, so long as no one was using the spare desk for anything anyways. 

And then Sasha disappeared, and Melanie was there instead. She’d taken the fourth spare desk instead of Sasha’s, even though the fourth desk was cluttered. He can only assume that Martin had awkwardly tried to explain the situation to her and cleaned it up for her use. The extra mess did not migrate over to Sasha’s desk. It didn’t seem to matter so much any longer, to have a messy work station. Unimportant. Not on anyone’s list of priorities. 

And then Basira came as well, and… there was only one spare desk left. Sasha’s desk became Basira’s desk. It seemed silly to be upset over something like that, so long after she’d died, with no memories to remember her by. Tim had still contrived to grow even angrier, Martin quieter. Jon went out on a lot of trips. 

Tim’s gone, now. There’s been no new assistants to take over his desk, and he doesn’t know if it’s good or not. Tim certainly held no fondness for anything in this building, and it aches a little to see it gathering dust. Maybe it would feel better if he could stop thinking of it as Tim’s desk. Then again, he would do anything to make sure that no more people get trapped in the spider web that is the Magnus Archives. 

Martin’s desk is gathering dust as well. Jon spends a lot of time inside of his office with the door shut, not looking at it. Which is just as well, because sometimes Basira and Melanie have to come in to satisfy the Archive’s unforgiving clutch on them, and he might as well help them avoid him. He’d rather not risk another… confrontation with Melanie, anyways. 

He’s not hiding from Basira or Melanie now. They’re not in. They’re usually not in. He is. He always is. He lost his flat while he was in the coma, and he hasn’t tried to get it back. He’d barely spent any time in the place before he lost it anyways. Why bother? All he really needs is a place to sleep, shower, and change his clothes, and it turns out that the Magnus Institute has all of those things. 

Jon is not hiding inside his office, because he’s alone. It feels like he’s always alone, nowadays. Not that he’d ever spent time with the Archival assistants before all of… all of this. He avoided them often, really. Trying to keep them safe. What a joke. 

Tim’s desk is still Tim’s desk. He despised it when Jon went rifling through it. He got _ so mad.  _

But he’s dead now, isn’t he? And Jon remembers the way he’d angrily, spitefully drink alcohol while in the office in the last few months of his life. It had been just another uncomfortable thing that he couldn’t fix to try and ignore at the time, but now he’s wondering if there’s any still left in one of his drawers (there is, he’s certain of it, and he’s not thinking about how he knows that). 

He finds a half full bottle of something that tastes bitter and burns on the way down his throat. He grimaces and drinks it. It doesn’t take long to start working. He hasn’t eaten yet today (he keeps forgetting, he keeps going longer and longer without eating when he doesn’t notice and he’s not thinking about that either), and he’s a small man, and he’s never particularly liked drinking in excess. He’s mostly only ever done it to have something to do with his hands at parties, slowly sipping at one cup of beer (uni parties that Georgie dragged him to) or one flute of champagne (company parties that Elias insisted he attend) for the entire night. 

Jon gets drunk. He doesn’t like being drunk, but he’s alone and Sasha’s desk is Basira’s desk and Tim’s desk is empty and so is Martin’s even though he isn’t dead. He’s alone and he’s tired and he’s hungry and he doesn’t want to think about how food doesn’t make him feel full any longer. And he’s  _ bored. _ He has nothing to do. No one to talk to. He gets drunk. 

The whole rest of the bottle goes down smoothly, and he tosses it away with an echoing clatter onto the stone floor. It doesn’t break. He’s not in the Archives any longer. He didn’t want to look at the empty desks. He… went on a walk. He’s in the tunnels now. 

There’s a yellow door in the tunnels. 

It’s incongruously cheerful, set against the dark cold stone walls of the tunnels but he knows that it's dangerous before he can even remember why. Walking into that door means death. 

After a long moment of dizzy, directionless, sluggish thinking, he knocks on it instead. 

_ (KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK did you bring a gift for Mr. Spider, Jon?)  _

Knocking isn’t safe either, but that’s fine. It’s fine for Jon to do dangerous things that are going to get him hurt. He feels confident and certain of this fact as he leans against the wall to keep his balance, doesn’t feel the need to justify or rationalize it. The door creaks open, and his stomach cramps a bit with anxiety anyways, but he doesn’t try to run. He just watches the door open slowly, slowly, like the person opening the door is savoring it like a delicacy. 

Helen smiles at him. Helen Richardson had had a small, shaky, uncertain, tear stained smile when he’d known her. Helen smiles like Michael, instead. 

Michael Shelley probably hadn’t smiled like Michael had, either. He didn’t seem like the type to smile like that, from the little he heard about him on the tapes, the story. Not so wide, with so many teeth, eyes so open. 

But no one smiles at Jon nowadays, so he smiles back for just a moment, even if he still feels a bit like he’s looking at something wearing Helen’s corpse. A bit sickened, a bit horrified. It’s a familiar feeling by now. It’s okay. 

(Is something wearing Jon’s corpse right now, and he just didn’t notice?) 

“Archivist,” Helen says warmly. Helen Richardson had called him Mr. Sims, formal even in her fearful desperation. “So good to see you again.”

Jon snorts, darkly amused. Helen’s formal too. He slips a little where he’s leaning against the wall, topples abruptly onto one knee. 

Helen laughs, and he’d never heard Helen Richardson laugh, but he  _ knows  _ that she hadn’t laughed like that. No human possibly could. It’s even more disorienting than normal, with the added echo of the tunnels. 

“You’re  _ drunk,” _ she says, delighted. “That’s very funny.” 

“Is it?” he asks, and he’s a little bit proud of how sober his voice sounds. “I always thought drunk people were awkward and uncomfortable. Or sad.” 

(Tim, swigging so angrily from his bottle that it was almost violent.) 

“I like alcohol,” she says. “I like what it does to people. It’s like going for too long without sleep. It… loosens up the borders of the mind.” 

He squints at her, struck by a sudden certainty. (He’s not thinking about it, he’s not thinking about where that certainty is coming from.) 

“You kill people with it.” 

She smiles and nods, friendly, like they’re talking about anything but murder. “Michael liked withholding sleep from people, watching as they slowly unraveled. I think I prefer the drinkers. They remember so little, lose track of their lives every single night, need next to no reasoning to do  _ anything _ when they’ve had enough… you can convince them of so much. Easily tricked. It’s easy, good food.” 

Jon should be horrified. He is, in a way. But mostly he’s just _ fascinated. _ He wants to hear more. He wants to know every single way that Helen is different from Michael, and  _ all _ of the details of  _ all _ of her kills--

“Ah ah,” she says, her voice just as friendly as it’s been all along (no one’s friendly to Jon these days) except that one of her hands is touching his face now. Sharp, heavy, threatening fingers resting against his mouth, shushing him. He realizes that he’d been opening it to ask a question. “Watch your questions, Jon.” 

She’s still smiling just like before, but she seems colder now. All she’d have to do is apply some pressure, and-- 

He closes his mouth against her fingers. His lip slices open, blood trickling down his chin. It’s okay. 

She removes her hand, and his heartbeat slows just a bit from its rabbit fast pace. It feels less like she’s an inch away from killing him, now. 

“Sorry,” he says, not knowing what else to say. 

“I know that you’re hungry,” she says, kind and understanding, his blood dripping from her fingers. “But you don’t eat  _ me. _ Understand?” 

“Yes,” he says. He doesn’t. 

“Good,” she says, and she strokes her long, sharp fingers through his hair approvingly, fondly, the knife edge points just barely not piercing his scalp. 

He shivers involuntarily, and the drink in him is just warm enough to make him not care how obvious it is. Not care about whether it’s from fear or the fact that he can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. 

“You’re starving,” she notes. 

“I’m not,” he says, because he ate breakfast this morning. The day before that, he ate breakfast, lunch, and dinner, just like the day before that. All full, large meals. He has never eaten so dutifully, so regularly in his life before, because if he doesn’t write it down now and set alarms and make rules and be very, very strict with himself then he doesn’t remember to do it when he eventually starts to feel faint. Because he always, always feels faint with hunger now, no matter how much he eats. He eats so much, and the hunger never leaves his bones. It just sinks in deeper and deeper and he’s  _ hungry _ and food isn’t fixing it and what’s  _ wrong with him?  _

(Is he wearing Jon’s corpse? How can he tell?) 

“I was like that at the start,” she sighs, almost wistfully, nostalgic.  _ Oh what a silly little girl I was,  _ that sigh says. “So hungry, and more and more so by the day. I knew from the start what I would have to do to fix it, because I’m not just Helen. I knew. I resisted, but…” She laughs, like it's funny. “It was inevitable.” 

Jon doesn’t understand what she’s talking about. He refuses to understand. 

“I tried to go to you for help,” she says, grinning. He remembers that. She’d looked more like Helen Richardson, then. A little scared, a little lost, a little plaintive.  _ Please, Jon, I need to talk to someone.  _ He left her to be swallowed up by the Spiral until she was near unrecognizable. The Spiral is so much larger than just one human. Like a drop of water in a sea of blood. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, and this time he really, really means it. His eyes burn with it. He’d thought he’d been shouting at the monster that had eaten Helen Richardson, and maybe he had, but it had been her as well. She’d been all alone, and scared, and she’d needed help. She’d asked for it from him. He said no. Shouted it. 

(It’s so fitting, so deserving, that he’s in her position now. Scared and alone and not himself, and everyone so angry when he asks for help.) 

“You did me a favor,” she says, as if it hadn’t been a horribly cruel thing to do. “It got me to give up a little bit quicker than I would have otherwise. Starving is so painful. I’ll help you with that.” 

He blinks. He’s sitting on the floor, and the world is dizzy and doesn’t entirely make sense. He’s not sure that he’s fully following the conversation, but he clings to the last thing she said. “You’ll help me,” he repeats. “Even though I didn’t help you? I was so, so--” mean. Awful. Impatient and horrified and grieving and angry and she hadn’t deserved him throwing all of that at her, she’d just been scared, she hadn’t known what she was doing. She asked him for help, and he said no. Shouldn’t she do the same thing to him? Return the favor. Give him what he deserves. 

She smiles, too wide, a smile that could never fit on a human face. She’s always smiling so much. Jon doesn’t see what cause she could possibly have. She had her own humanity stolen from her. She’d done nothing to deserve it. She was a  _ realtor. _ She was just doing her job. 

“I’m the Spiral, Archivist,” she says, deeply amused. “Making sense isn’t my department. I just do what I want to do.” 

“Why would you want to help me?” he asks, because that doesn’t make sense either. People don’t want to help him. They want to hurt him. They want to get angry at him. He’s  _ wronged _ Helen. She should want to--

“The Spiral hates the Archivist, because she irrevocably tainted it with humanity, personhood, limitations. Michael loves the Archivist because he trusted her and took care of her, and he hates her for what she did to him. Helen loves you, because you were kind to her during her weakest moment. She hates you, because you were cruel to her during her next weakest moment. But that was her fault for thinking that people are consistent, that they make sense. Just because someone does something once, doesn’t mean that they’re going to do the same thing the next time it happens.” She smiles. “And those are all the same person.” 

She strokes his hair again, a touch possessive, dangerous, fond. She’s a monster. She kills people. She could hurt him. She probably will. 

But she’s  _ friendly.  _ No one’s friendly to him, now. Because he’s just a thing wearing Jon’s corpse, and that makes everyone scared and angry and sad. 

“I’m not Gertrude,” he says, like it’s a shield. “We’re different people.” 

“I’m not Michael,” she says. “And yet I am. Things don’t have to make sense to be true, Archivist.” She sounds indulgent as she says this, like she’s explaining something as basic as  _ the sky is blue  _ to a young child. 

She keeps stroking his hair, and he leans into it, so hungry. He thinks he can feels the strands twisting into spirals for a few moments as her fingers brush past his skin, just barely not cutting. Michael cut him once. The scar  _ twisted, _ healed like a piece of dizzying artwork. 

“You’re starving, and I want to help you because you’re important to me,” she says, like it’s all so simple. “Just do as I say, and you’ll finally get to eat properly.” 

God, he’s so, so tired of being hungry. And he  _ misses  _ kindness, softness, friendliness. He misses it more keenly, more sharply than he’d ever thought possible. 

“Okay,” he agrees. She laughs, that inhuman echoing sound, and then she tells him what he needs to do to make it all just  _ stop  _ for a while. He doesn’t stop to think if Helen’s help is a good thing. He’s drunk, and he’s lonely. 

He’s just happy that anyone wants to help him at all. 


End file.
